Thisbe decided she wanted to know why she was only his type when he was a couple of drinks in. She wanted to know if there was something about the light of the day that turned her into an ogre. She could see that Kazeem was startled by his powers of charm running out of juice, and she saw his defensiveness curdle into fury before his mouth even opened. He’d said that she was exaggerating, being extra, and besides, he’d said, throwing his shirt back on, ‘you’re acting pretty dramatic considering we aren’t actually fucking’。
When he said it, Thisbe had felt something akin to relief. Ever since they’d begun fooling around, she wondered when he would get bored, when he would throw her virginity in her face. She’d said she wasn’t ready and he’d said it was cool, but clearly it was only cool as long as she was grateful that he deigned to bless her with his mediocre feeling-up techniques. A clumsy tit squeeze. An oddly administered ass-smack. Thisbe often wondered why he kept coming back to her when there was no sex involved, but it was clear to her now. Kazeem thought it was a virtuous act for him to partake in sexual activities with her while adhering to her boundaries, and, as a treat, he also got to hold it over her, keep it in his arsenal for when the rose tint on her spectacles faded and she wasn’t dazzled by the paltry performance of his affection. He must have known that day would eventually come, which was why the poisonous comeback was already fully prepped on his tongue. He thought she should have been grateful. Thisbe was a late bloomer; she had her first kiss at nineteen and wouldn’t insult herself by calling the awkward drinks she’d had at the student union bar ‘dates’。 With Kazeem she’d enjoyed being desired more than the acts of desire themselves, but was it worth being desired as a guilty pleasure? Like, shit, had she been so starved? Clearly, because she was settling for the bare bones of romance, the scraps and crumbs. She deserved something hearty and healthy and filling, she deserved something that would overflow out of cupped hands, she deserved to be scooped up and loved on. She wasn’t going to be anybody’s dirty little secret. Last night, she had told him to get out, and he’d said ‘what?’， with the kind of incredulity that made her stomach turn. The arrogance. She’d pushed him out of the door, and out of her life. She felt shame that she’d allowed herself to be treated this way, that she’d let his stupid, empty words smooth over the sharpness of her mind, but, mostly, she felt rage: pure, unbridled, potent.
Last night, when Pyramus played his music – rap, mostly female artists – so full of braggadocio, belief in their innate sauce and power, sex appeal, right to be revered and fuck anyone who doesn’t, Thisbe let him. It was a salve.
Pyramus
R&B mingled with the sound of rampant banging on Thisbe’s door. Pyramus had found Thisbe’s playlist a welcome accompaniment to his coursework and pot noodles until Kazeem decided to add some cacophonous percussion. Pyramus had doctored his pot ramen with herbs, spices, bits of rotisserie chicken, humming along to Thisbe’s trippy, spacey R&B while he poured boiling water into a plastic cup, stirring with all the panache of a Michelin chef, narrating his non-existent cooking show: ‘Now, you gotta add a little more water than you need, just to make sure it’s more soupy, but remember to correlate it with the amount of seasoning you use.’ He was proud of his culinary skills, and he really wanted to enjoy it, but the incessant knocking was increasing in fervour, breaking through the R&B and cutting through the umami of a crushed up cube of Maggi.
‘Come on, babe. Don’t move mad. I’m sorry, Thisbe. Let me in.’
Pyramus rolled his eyes. Kazeem was pissed because of his loss of access – he’d heard the whole thing the night before; excellent show from Thisbe – and the rejection was driving him crazy. He wanted to be wanted by Thisbe, and Pyramus could guarantee that, if Thisbe opted to take him back, he would revert to his old ways in a week.
‘I know you’re in there, Thisbe. Let’s work this out. I miss you and I know you miss me.’
Fuck’s sake. He couldn’t hear any more of this.
Pyramus put his noodles down, and went out into the corridor, not bothering to throw on a shirt. This needed to be over quickly.
‘She’s not in,’ he said.
Kazeem looked Pyramus up and down. ‘Do I look like a prick?’
Pyramus grinned. ‘You really want me to answer that, man? I mean, I can. But I just wanna make sure.’
Kazeem faltered and cleared his throat. ‘This is between me and her.’